


happily

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, and Kittens, animals galore, no seriously this may be the fluffiest thing i've written, there are wolf pups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:05:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She’s not ‘an it, daddy! She’s a she ‘an her name is <i>Sprinkles</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	happily

**Author's Note:**

> oh god, what am i doing with my life. this fic was inspired by [this](http://25.media.tumblr.com/2ffe3c6350c9516374ed23f7a49cabc5/tumblr_mwjjx7Z1ge1sn75h6o1_500.jpg) picture, and this fic is entirely Jo's fault. THIS IS ALL OF HER FAULT, OKAY.
> 
> this fic is not "medically" correct as far as caring for wolf pup's go. i am so sorry.
> 
> obviously, as sam is three, all spelling/grammatical errors are intentional with him.

It starts with the yapping.

Stiles almost doesn’t notice it at first, because the tomato sauce he’s broiling on their stove isn’t separating the way that he’d like it to--this is the last time he gets it store bought, _Jesus_ \--and Sam is in the living room, watching Bubble Guppies louder than Stiles usually allows, but it keeps him entertained, and goddammit, who the hell cares about sensitive werewolf hearing when his kid is giving him Uncle Scott’s patented Puppy Dog Eyes?

Stiles doesn’t, that’s who.

Derek will  _positively_ chew him out for it, later. But, whatever. Stiles is a manly man that can handle it, and if he bats his eyelashes a little to make sure Derek eats him out in the fun way, too, well, no one can exactly blame him. His tongue is downright sinful, okay.

The sauce is finally doing what Stiles wants it to, and he’s just about to add some of his signature spices when Sam tears into the room with a truly alarmed look on his face, one that Stiles hasn’t seen since the Great Baby Kitten Debacle of Last Spring (Sam may or may not have found a baby kitten stuck in a tree last April, and because, much to Sam’s neverending disappointment, cats generally kept a wide berth to werewolves, Stiles was the one who climbed up the tree to save the damn thing. 

He has the scars to prove it.

The cat is still in their yard, now, and every now and then Stiles will go out to feed it and see Sam looking up at the sky with it (“She’s not ‘an it, daddy! She’s a she ‘an her name is _Sprinkles_ ,”) perched on his chest, purring away contentedly.

Leave it to his kid to break through werewolf generalizations with an iron fist of kitty cuddle times and a healthy helping of I-don’t-give-no-shit attitude--Stiles isn’t even surprised.

Admittedly, he's sort of alarmingly proud, sue him.)

 

Unsurprisingly, Stiles doesn’t like that look, at all.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and kneels down to his son’s height, unyielding tomato sauce be damned. “What’s wrong, little man?”

 

“I ‘ear somefin,” Sam says, a garbled mess of words that Stiles can only understand because Derek does the same thing after he wakes up every morning–-it’s as frustrating as it sounds, actually, and it’s not even slightly adorable. Not even a little, or a smidgen; okay, it’s adorable as hell, holy shit.

“What do ya hear?” Stiles asks, because “I hear something” is not such a weird statement coming from a baby werewolf, apparently.

Sam hears lots of things, hears almost everything, which means that Stiles’ sex life has gotten dramatically less exciting whenever he’s around. There may or may not be frequent visits to Uncle Scott’s house–-don’t look at him like that, okay? He has needs, and those needs need fulfillment. They cannot be fulfilled with innocent, hearing baby werewolf ears around every corner.

Sam’s eyebrows crinkle cutely, and he tilts his head in the way that Derek does when he’s trying to make Sam giggle (it always works, too; let it be said that their kid doesn’t _not_ think his papa hung the freaking moon). Stiles can’t help but feel a swell of affection, then, either, because yeah, his kid might just be perfect. Actually, there is no ‘might’ about it, because this is Derek Hale’s kid, and any spawn of his was bound to be cursed to the highest levels of perfection since before conception.

(Stiles should know, he’s the one who directed the studies.)

“They ‘ound sad, daddy,” he looks utterly distraught, now, like his little body can’t take how horrible he feels, and Stiles’ heart aches. Stiles doesn't even need to ask who sounds sad, because he knows that it's probably some sort of woodland creature. He's long since come to terms with the fact that his son has a deep-seated infatuation with animals. He stands up, a little too quickly, but finds his footing before he can topple over. He pats his son on the shoulder, and then picks him up under the armpits, hoisting him on his hip.

“Daddy’s going to go see what the fuss is about, okay?” Stiles assures him, dropping a kiss to Sam’s temple. “But daddy needs you to stay here.”

“But–”

“No buts, Sam. I have to make sure it’s safe first.” Stiles says, firmly. Even though Beacon Hills has mellowed out considerably; Stiles would almost call it _stable_. They're at the point where they no longer need to hold weekly stakeouts in the woods to make sure that nothing is amiss, but he's not entirely certain this  _isn't_ some dramatic ploy by an otherwise undefined supernatural creature to catch him off guard. He's not about to let his kid get caught in that messy crossfire, either. 

“Papa says your ‘asier to hurt, ‘addy.” Sam points out, and bless his heart, really.

“Papa is right,” Stiles agrees, because it’s true, and it’s not like Derek hasn’t been drilling it in Sam’s head, anyway, that humans are fluffier and easier to hurt than werewolves, that they need protecting. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside when he thinks about the fact that his three-year-old son thinks he’s worth protecting-–that he can actually _protect_ Stiles. “But, I need to protect you now, okay? Can you let me do that for you?”

Sam bites his lip, considering. Stiles has to instill the highest level of self-control so he doesn’t laugh. “Otay, daddy. I ‘on ‘t like this. I ‘ont like ‘his at _all_.”

“I know, pup,” Stiles says, affectionately, and presses his face into the side of his son’s neck, letting him scent Stiles. “You can stay here and make sure the house is okay, alright?"

"Otay."

"Good. I'll be right back."

*

Stiles is not sure what he was expecting, but finding five wolf pups on the outer perimeter of their backyard was definitely at the top of the list, in-between kanima baby hell spawns and the Queen of England.

Seriously, _what the hell_.

They're tiny, probably no more than a month or two at most, and Stiles can't help but wonder where their mother is. They're much too young to be left alone like this, and they're out in the open, utterly vulnerable. It's what makes him take out his phone and dial Derek's number. He is so completely out of his depth, here.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, and his voice is calm, but Stiles can picture the lines of panic around his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles wonders, idly, if Derek can hear the uptick in his heartbeat over the phone. He makes a mental note to ask him that, later.

“We have a problem,” Stiles says, and Derek lets out a sigh. “Well. Not a problem, per se. A situation?”

“What is it, Stiles.”

“There are wolf pups in our yard, Derek,” Stiles manages. “They’re pretty young, too. Can’t be more than a few weeks old, and they’re out in the open. That’s not normal, right? Where’s their mother? Are they abandoned? And why are there wolves in California? There haven’t been wolves here in years, Derek, _years_.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Well, real ones anyway. I’m not sure the pack really counts.”

“Stiles,” Derek repeats, and Stiles closes his mouth with an audible ‘clack.’ “It’s okay. Breathe.”

Stiles takes a much needed breath. Derek makes a pleased noise into the phone.

He may or may not have been panicking, because somehow, finding wolf pups is more terrifying than finding a wayward vampire. Stiles has no idea when his life spiraled so violently out of control.

“You’re going to have to bring them in. Even if their mother is still alive, it’s not safe for them to be out in the open like that.”

“Okay–yeah. Yeah. I’ll put them in an old clothes basket, or something.”

“Good.” Derek says. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and then adds, “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Stiles can hear the smile over the phone, and he helplessly returns it.

*

When Stiles gets back inside, clutching all of the squirming wolf pups in his hands, and under his arms, Sam is on him immediately.

“Sammy,” Stiles lets out a breath, before his son can get a word out. “Look what I have.”

Sam’s face lights up when he sees the pups in his arms, and they brighten up considerably after his eyes finish raking over them like he was making sure they were okay. Stiles' heart absolutely does _not_ swell. “Pups! Daddy, you got pups.”

“All thanks to you,” Stiles smiles, and puts them on the floor next to the clothes basket. He empties out all of the mismatched socks and freshly washed shirts from inside, and grabs a couple of towels to line the bottom. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, if they’re still at the age where they need constant warmth and comfort--Stiles may or may not still be panicking, here--but he does it just to be safe, regardless.

Once he’s placed the final towel in, he places all of the pups into the basket, and smiles down at his son. “Good job, Sammy,” he says, and kisses his temple. “You saved them.”

Sam beams at him, and leans up on his tippy toes to kiss Stiles’ nose where he’s kneeling in front of him. “No, daddy. You did.”

Stiles laughs, and picks him up. “We both did. Now, how about we go finish papa’s dinner, huh?”

*

Stiles has to start the sauce all over again.

He finds that he doesn't really mind, especially not when Sam lets out a peel of laughter when his eyes land on the brown gunk in the pan.

*

It’s when they’re stirring the noodles, that Sam turns very alarmed, very wide eyes to him.

“What if they get hungry?”

“We’ll feed them,” Stiles promises, even if he doesn’t know where they’ll get the milk.

Shit.

*

Sam has fallen asleep on top of the pups.

Stiles may or may not be melting into his laundry room floor.

He had been doing laundry, partly because the pups had seemed to find the lulling sound of the dryer soothing, and partly because werewolves went through clothing unbelievably fast, and there was always laundry to be done, when he looked down and saw Sam curled up in the clothes basket, little legs tucked underneath him, with one of his hands curled in a pup’s fur. Stiles may or may not have snapped a hundred pictures.

(Okay, he totally did.

He sent them to everyone in the pack, too, because Sam has them all wrapped hopelessly around his tiny little fingers.)

“Fuck, that’s cute,” Stiles says, after he’s put his phone back in his pocket.

“What have I told you about watching your language around your son?” Derek tsks, and Stiles jumps, because, shit, Derek never fails to scare the living hell out of him, even after all of these years.

Stiles can't help but turn to him, smiling bright and mushy and blinding, looping his arms around his neck. "I'm still getting you that bell for Christmas," Stiles says, conversationally, ignoring the frantic beating of his heart. It's true, too, he has it in his cart on amazon.

 

“Mmm,” Derek murmurs, catching Stiles’ lips in a quick kiss. It’s lazy and unrushed and perfect, and Stiles possibly wants to stay curled in his arms forever. When they pull away, Derek’s lips are glistening, and his cheeks are flushed. He’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. 

“We should move him,” Derek says.

Stiles snorts. “Like he’d even let us. He’s been by them all night, you know. He told me that they needed as much attention as possible since they didn’t have a mommy anymore.”

Derek’s eyes softened. “Yeah.”

"Yeah," Stiles says. "He's adamant about coming with us to pick up all of their supplies, too."

Derek snorts, so unattractively that Stiles presses another kiss to his lips. "I wonder where he got that from," he remarks, drily.

Stiles waves him off with a scoff. "There's only one stubborn person in this equation," he says, airily. "And it's not me."

Derek hums, but before he can say anything, Stiles cuts him off, with, "this is so going to end up being another Kitty Debacle, isn't it? We're totally adopting five wolf pups, aren't we?"

Derek laughs, soft and private, and it’s Stiles’ favorite sound. He sort of wants it to play on loop forever. “When have we ever been able to say no to him?”

It’s true, too. They’ve never quite mastered the art of saying no to their son.

“We’re going to need a lot of bottles,” Stiles comments.

“And milk. A lot of milk.” Derek looks frightened. They possibly may have to buy a cow. Or a goat, or whatever it is that wolf pups can live off of as surrogate. Shit, this is going to be interesting.

Stiles leans back against Derek, and laughs, anyway.

They got this.

**Author's Note:**

> embarrassingly enough, the title is taken from one direction's song of the same name.
> 
> i can't be tamed, guys.
> 
> feel free to follow me on tumblr [HERE](http://ocrien.tumblr.com/) :-)


End file.
